


Sweet Little Posh Thing

by ElinorX



Series: Queen and Country [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anthea is Duchess of Cambridge, Before Q is Q, Bond Air is Go, Coventry Lot, F/M, Gen, Mycroft IS the British Government, Q is R at this point, The British Royals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-25 20:44:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1661834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElinorX/pseuds/ElinorX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What started out as damage control for the mistake made by a careless MOD official became a disastrous miscalculation for the man who holds a 'minor position in the British government' and a certain 'young, female person'. </p><p>In which the compromising photographs are a bit more compromising than Mycroft lets on, Sherlock doesn't know everything, and Irene Adler pushes on the British Government's hidden pressure point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Coventry Lot

 

_“Bond Air is go. Tell the Coventry lot.”_

 

The failed ‘Bond Air’ operation was remembered as an ugly blotch mark within British and American intelligence circles, an embarrassment which was only prevented from escalation at the last minute by Sherlock’s timely decryption of Irene Adler’s passcode.

In hindsight, perhaps Whitehall should’ve accepted CIA’s advice and put a bullet through Ms. Adler’s head instead of the roundabout path it took to retrieve her toxic camera phone. In that case, Sherlock Holmes would have never met his match in “the woman who beat him”, but at least it could've saved his brother and the British Security Service a lot of time and headache.

The truth is this: Long before Sherlock and John were invited via helicopter to the Buckingham Palace, the breach in security of the Coventry plan had already been perceived by the British intelligence community. You see, the MOD official from whom Irene Adler obtained the Boeing 747 seating arrangements was not a complete and utter idiot. Very quickly after his session with the cunning dominatrix, he realized that perhaps his personal indulgence had inadvertently exposed classified information. Betraying his country for a little bit of recreational scolding was an act so comically criminal that even he did not wish to be found guilty of it.

And so, as soon as the mistake was realized, the MOD man reported himself to the relevant authority. What happened afterwards was the execution of a plan proposed to remedy the situation, involving some “compromising photographs” and a disgruntled civil servant. It was an idea that backfired most destructively, the ripples of its impact hitting none more than Mr. British Government himself.   

_I always thought that love is a chemical defect found on the losing side; thank you for the final proof._

Callous words, but how true it was.

~

_Early March, 2011_

It began on a regular working day. Nothing too out of the ordinary for Olivia Mansfield, the prestigious and hailed M of SIS. Q-branch was off doing geeky-things, 007 had yet delivered another successful but dramatic operation in Istanbul, and the Americans were appeased since the Coventry plan has been drafted and agreed upon. If anything, MI6 was having a quieter, calmer morning than usual.

M drank her coffee, checked her emails, and reviewed the numerous mission reports with a hard-to-come-by good mood. When five o’clock rolled around and not a single disaster threatened to uproot England and annihilate its citizens, M thought perhaps she could go home early for once.

A mere minute later, just as she shrugged into her heavy winter coat, her phone which had been silent the whole day came to life. The ominous flashing green of the caller ID – ** _E, Smallwood_** – would have made any lesser man or woman groan, but M was above such plebeian gestures. Instead, she grimaced, the tip of her thin lips dragging downwards with an almighty force, and answered the call. Her stern, icy tone was laced with irritation.

“This is M.”

Elizabeth Smallwood was a good friend – well, as close to a friend as one could have in this business – but M didn’t particularly enjoy these calls. Eliza was rarely a bearer of good news. Last time she phoned in, M ended up with a juvenile Holmes on her hand as if he were a delinquent orphan and MI6 the foster home of last resort. The kid had since proved his loyalty and competence, and taking him in definitely meant M now held a debt over his oldest brother’s head, but that was beside the point. 

“We have a problem,” Lady Smallwood started, sounding incredibly tired, as if the whole situation had drained her. “It’s Bond Air. MOD has been in contact: there could be a possible breach in security.”

M squeezed her eyes shut, barely holding in her frustration. Though the Coventry initiative had barely grown out of its infancy stage, it was a sound and clever ploy, and she would hate it to see it choked in the cradle.

“An emergency meeting with the nuclear core of the team has been issued. We are to gather in half n’ hour at Thames House. The MOD agent responsible would be there to give us a full disclosure of the situation. He is quite chastised already from what I heard; can’t be easy to come forth with a confession such as this.”

M’s brows furrowed. “I don’t understand. What exactly is the nature of the breach?”

There was a short pause, and Lady Smallwood could be heard releasing another tired sigh. M’s frown deepened as she felt an impending migraine pushing forth from behind her eyes. She had a dreadful feeling in the pit of her guts that was usually reserved for when 007 pulls a massively stupid stunt that would for sure result in a PR nightmare on an international level.

“Irene Adler,” said Lady Smallwood finally, without further explanation. The name itself carried more than enough threat.  

 _Ah, fuck. That bloody dominatrix._ M scowled, slamming her office door behind her with more force than necessary. “You see, Eliza, this is the reason why I don’t trust men.”

 

~

 

Her sister was chattering excitedly about something.  Probably about the bridesmaid dress she was just fitted for.

Anthea didn’t care in the least.

The wedding was less than two months away, and at this point, she knew there was no stopping it.  

Anthea frowned, annoyed at herself for this sudden bout of melancholia. Look at her, being all moody like a bloody child. She should be smiling and exultant, but the harder she tried to be that person, the stronger her repulsion grew at the very idea of even being happy. If she could just muster an eighth of the excitement that seemed to have infected everyone anticipating “the big day”, then perhaps she would not be so miserable, or feel that she was marching towards the end.

“Katie, are you listening to me at all?” Pip shook her arm.

_No Pip, I’m not._

“Oh sorry, Pip. My head wandered a bit; it’s been a long day.”

Pip nodded slowly, unconvinced.

Anthea looped her arm though her sister’s and carried on strolling down Mount Street as though nothing was wrong. In secret, she reminisced a time when days were truly long, filled from dawn to dusk and beyond with parliamentary meetings and diplomatic conference calls. She could still taste the bitterness of the cold 3 am coffees, smell the gunpowder on her finger tips, and feel the weight of a tailored suit top that often found itself draped over her shoulders when she invariably crashed behind her desk.

“You sure you’re all right?” pressed Pip worriedly.

“Yes. Just tired,” Anthea reassured. And that wasn’t a lie.

She knew exhaustion well, but nothing in all her years working in the intelligence field had prepared her for this special type of fatigue, one in which she had accomplished nothing but still had no energy, as if the dullness of her days had sucked all the power from her limps.

Suddenly, her phone gave two short vibrations in her pocket, a mode she had set up for special contacts. The alert gave her a bit of a surprise – she wasn’t expecting anything from the office today – but with the surprise, she felt a thin sliver of spirit slip back into her bones.

Pip was talking again. Clandestinely, Anthea pulled out her mobile and glanced at the screen. Punching in the passcode, she watched the backdrop of herself and her fiance dissolve into black as her civilian phone switched to its encrypted OS that contained the other half of her life. It was a shadow program installed by MI5’s quartermaster, rendering the classified contents of her phone undetectable to meddling individuals in her less-than-private life.

Anthea scoffed at the irony. It was rather difficult to protect state secrets, when she was expected to live a life in which nothing was truly private.

_One new message._

_There is a taxi coming on your left with the license plate number SS05 ADG. Get in. We have a situation. - MH_

She smiled despite herself.

From her periphery, Anthea could see the cab just passing the oncoming traffic stop. She had approximately a minute to catch it.

Glancing at her sister, she considering for a second of an appropriate lie, but decided against it. Pip would never waggle her tongue; she learned that the hard way when she was sixteen and decided that tailing her big sister was a good idea. A severe warning from the British Security Service managed to seal her lips for the last decade. To this day, Philippa didn’t know exactly what her sister did for a living, but she knew enough not to ask any questions or mention it to anyone else.

“Pip, I have to go. If anyone inquires after me, you know the drill.” Anthea raised her hand and hailed the cab.

Her sister frowned, growing pale. “But Katie….”

“What?” She turned around, one foot already inside the car.

“I thought…nothing. Never mind. Be careful.”

“Thanks. You head on home,” Anthea kissed her sister’s cheek and responded to Pip’s suspicion with a placating smile, but as the cab door closed behind her, her smile grew until it became genuine, and all trace of weariness lifted from her face.   

Inside the taxi, a bespoke suit hung on the handle bar above opposite window, waiting for her. The driver was a young man, younger than herself. Nothing in his disguise gave him away but she saw through him nevertheless. As the saying goes, it takes one to know one.

_Mycroft’s new PA._

“Good afternoon ma’am, Mr. Holmes sent me.” He greeted her with a small courteous nod through the rear-view mirror.

Sitting in the back of an unfamiliar vehicle, Anthea felt a bit empathetic towards John Watson. Since meeting Sherlock, the man had been picked up unceremoniously off the streets for far too many times.  

John…Anthea had only met him once, that first night when he was coerced into her vehicle by a series of ominous telephone calls that trailed after him like shadows in an unfamiliar neighbourhood. And yes, it was _her_ vehicle (MI5 property) and _her_ driver (MI5 agent), both of which she had lent to the concerned big brother looking to intimidate his little brother’s new found friend. As for herself, well, she was there purely for entertainment purposes, or as the millennials put it – “doing it for the lols”.

Mycroft’s request had come a little unexpectedly. At the time, she had been preoccupied by a very significant promotion, an _ascension_ , which would transform her career irrevocably for the years to come. The transfer of power of MI5’s highest authority had been a lengthy and time-consuming process, requiring numerous legal and logistic steps. Her predecessor, the previous Director General, had been a stubborn man of sixty-eight, who had held the fort at Thames House for over fifteen years. He’d been more than a little bit unwilling to hand over the reins to a successor so young and so… _female,_ and made blatant of his resistance to this change. Thus when it was finally confirmed, when all the documents were signed, when the gold name plague was engraved with her name and title, when the boxes were moved from her old office to her large new one, Anthea felt justified to revel in her triumph.

She’d been sitting in her new chair, facing her roomful of unpacked belongings, when her phone had rung.

-

_“Who is it now that you want me to abduct of our streets?”_

_“A Captain John Watson of the 5_ _ th _ _Northumberland Fusilier.” Mycroft sounded…. intrigued. He_ _didn’t have an assistant at the time, claiming that he was perfectly capable of managing his own books for the time being while a suitable replacement was unavailable. Anthea knew that he hadn’t even started looking, but she didn’t allow herself to ponder too much about why. Besides, even if he did, when it came to Sherlock, there were not many persons Mycroft Holmes trusted, and so this task of ( ~~illegally~~ ) abducting unsuspecting citizens would still fall to her. _

_Even if she was the head of British Security Service, even if asking this of her would be pushing professional boundaries…_

_She could say no, but she didn’t._

_“Oh I don’t know, Myc. If Six found out that the head of Five is off kidnapping innocents, they’d never let me live it down. M already glares at me the way one would a naughty child,” Anthea teased good-spiritedly, but she pulled up the file of this John H. Watson nevertheless. “Three-Continents Watson – he’s … a bit of a hound, isn’t he? Are we worried for Sheryl’s safety or his virtue?”_

_Mycroft grunted on the other line, but he was amused. She could tell._

_“Virtue? I do hope you aren’t speaking in the biblical sense. As for his safety, we can never be too careful. Come now, Ann, one more favour for an old friend.”_

_One more favour… and then it’s goodbye._

_Later that night, when the two of them watched Sherlock march away with his new flatmate turned friend, Mycroft, in his moment of distractedness, had said to Anthea, “Update their civilian status to Level Three: Active.”_

_And she replied, just like the olden days, “Sorry sir, whose status?”_

_“Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.” Then suddenly, he looked at her, a little embarrassed, before turning his gaze down to his shoes. “Apologies, Ann. I’d...”_

_He’d forgotten. Over the excitement of Sherlock’s new acquaintance, Mycroft had forgotten that this was all for show, put on for John Watson’s benefit. He was not a minor official, and she was so much more than a secretary. Perhaps once she had been, but no longer. No longer._

_Technically, he was still her superior, but nothing could ever be the same._

_“I should let you go,” he said lamely, after a short moment of silence._

_Anthea did not know if he had meant for it to come out that way, but the double entendre of that sentence was not lost on either of them._

_“Yes, it’s late.” She did not have the heart to chastise him for ordering her about like she was still one of his rookie subordinate. “Mycroft,” she called out as she got into the car. “Even Sherlock needs an assistant. There’s no sense in waiting.”_

_Mycroft nodded, saying nothing._

Mycroft Holmes did not have secretaries because he was too lazy to pick up his own dry-cleaning or update his agendas. Men like him needed a lieutenant, who served many vital and irreplaceable functions for the smooth running of his jurisdiction. Thus, when one left, another must take their place. Prolonged vacancy was inadvisable.

If Mycroft Holmes were a machine, then his assistants were gears, to be changed and replaced when needed - at least, that was how others saw them. In their world, agents were little more than objects, to be used, discarded or shelfed depending on their utility. Everyone had an expiration date, and no one was irreplaceable.

When her small office beside his own had been cleared out, Mycroft had sent her off the only way he knew how: with his 55 Macallan that he’d been saving for special occasions. The bottle had costed him a fortune.

_“Alea iacta est.” She said as she accepted the drink, hardly able to look him in the eye._

_With some hesitance, Mycroft raised his free hand and gently held her arm at the bend of her elbow, and through the sleeve of her suit, she could feel his warmth._

_“I understand now that… I had been selfish. I do hope that you would not hold me in contempt.” The door was closed, and with no audience except for her, Mycroft appeared…younger. Uncertain._

_Covering his hand with her own, she raised her gaze and with a watery smile, absolved the guilt he carried for so long. She hoped he knew that there was nothing to forgive._

_I love you. She wanted to say suddenly, but it didn’t seem right. With Mycroft, there had never been a right moment to voice those three words, and perhaps there would never be.  It didn’t matter; he knew. He had to know._

_The tickle in her throat was getting increasingly unbearable. She had never cried in front of him, and she was not about to break her record, not on her last day, especially not on her last day._

_So she raised her drink instead, “Cheers, Mycroft.”_

_Their glass clinked together quietly._

_“Likewise, my dear Ann.”_   

It was always meant to end this way. Even if she had not accepted her MI5 appointment, in the end, she would have had to leave him.

Many, many years ago, an operation called the Cendrillon Project was drafted to secure the future of the crown. Twelve candidates – eight girls and four lads (just in case their mark had an existential crisis in university) – were recommended by the different men and women who ran this country and placed at St. Andrew’s. Mycroft Holmes had made one proposal:

          Name: C.E. Middleton

          Code: A13257

          Alias: Anthea

To this day, Mycroft still could not decide if he had made a mistake, and no one but himself could know that deep down, he had simultaneously wished for her success and her failure. Anthea was beautiful, funny, witty and excellent.... _most_ excellent. Of course,  _of course,_ the mark would fall for her - of course he would - that was the point, but still.... Mycroft had entertainment the possibility of a different outcome.

And what a foolish delusion that had been.

When C.E.M became the final agent left in the Cendrillon Project, her superiors had prepared her with the knowledge that this would be the epitome of covert operations. Her mission was to maintain a mirage and preserve the dignity of a family whose image had been tarnished by too many divorces, scandals and failed marriages in the last two decades: this one cannot fail. It must not. She must not fail.

They never spoke of the consequences if she ever did, but she could imagine that it would not be pleasant.

Once she was married, she could not take another job as an agent. This was the condition she had agreed to at the very beginning. She’d been young and ambitious and the idea of being queen someday, a figure-head or not, had appeared too attractive to refuse.

As for the man who picked her, she had been too young and naïve to appreciate him from the get-go. But by the time she had come to know her own heart, it was already far too late. Her mark had fallen deeply in love with her, his family thoroughly approved, and there was no turning back.

Marriage was only a matter of time and logistics, and her resignation from Mycroft’s command was inevitable, but it would seem that he could not have her leave with nothing.

_An opportunity has risen which I would like you to take it. The window is short, to say the least, and in order to succeed you must secure it before the Cendrillon Project locks you down.  Whether you choose to or not is up to you, but I want it to be understood that if you do, it would not be easy._

That had been November of 2009, and merely two months later, by late January of the following year, she had been instated as the new Director General of MI5.

Beyond a professional recommendation, Mycroft had not interfered further. Yet Anthea knew, deep down, that having his support – his vote – gave tremendous weight to her candidacy. Despite her experience and brilliance, she was young, and therefore in the opinion of others, underqualified to hold such an important seat. Even after those who voted against her had begrudgingly accepted her for the job, there was the matter of her “Royal Assignment”, which some still thought posed a direct conflict of interest.

On this front, Mycroft could not help her, overtly or otherwise. This opportunity was for her, and she needed to stand alone and brave the storm, to prove to the British intelligence community that she was not a hammer but the hand that swung it, and that without Mycroft Holmes, she was still a force to be reckoned with, a stronghold of her own making and never to be underestimated. 

_You will not forget that I am Her Majesty’s agent, and regardless of what I will be in the future, I will be Britain’s civil servant – first, foremost and always._

His eyes as she said those words defending her candidacy before the board had shown with pride, and for her, that’d been enough.

Sometimes she wondered if it’d been his test – a taunt, a dare – to see if she was smart enough to climb the rope thrown at her while she had hung off the proverbial edge of her career.

Or perhaps it was not that at all. Perhaps pushing her towards higher grounds was the only way for a man like Holmes to express his gratitude and his condolence for the life course he had set her upon.

He thought he owed her.

Foolish man.

Some months after her official inauguration, she had texted him belatedly. _Thank you._  

_Congratulations, Ann. -MH_

Ann. She never truly knew why he opted to call her that, and it certainly wasn’t just because it was a short form of “Anthea”.

_“Do you really not know?”_

Once, in his state of impairment, a drugged up Sherlock had spilled his brother’s secret to her.

 _“It’s a self-warning. I suppose he is….afraid.”_ The word rolled off his tongue like something sweet, savoured. His mind was only half-lucid in the amphetamine high, and his grin was smug and giddy. How wonderful that he’d finally found an imperfection in his otherwise untouchable older sibling.

_“Afraid? Of what...?”_

She'd been how old then? 20? 21?

“ _That you’ll be **his**  Anne – his Anne Bering…Badlam…Bailey…Anne. Something.”_

_-_

“Boleyn…” She murmured, clutching her phone.

“Sorry, ma’am, I didn’t catch that.” Her driver spoke over his shoulder.

Anthea pulled herself from the depth of her memory, casting a glance at the agent behind the wheel. _Kaleb Reed_ , his name was. She’d read his file.

“Nothing. So,” Anthea met his eyes in the rear view mirror, parroting the words once asked of her. “What’s your name then?”  

“Benjamin, madam.” The young man replied.

Her lips curled upwards. “Is that your real name?” She asked, knowing that it wasn’t.

“No.”

“Good.” Her grin broadens, “And there’s no need to call me madam. I am not married yet and in any case we are both Mycroft’s people."

“But you are…” Kaleb gnawed on his lips, conflicted and a little bit embarrassed. A pale hint of blush coloured his cheeks. “How should I address you then?”

“Officially I am A, but you can call me Anthea.”  


	2. Thames House

Stationed in Millbank, on the north bank of Lambeth Bridge, was Thame House, the current headquarter of MI5.

In the back of the cab, Anthea gave herself one last look-over in her pocket mirror as she drew closer to her destination. The robin-egg-blue Valentino dress that she’d worn earlier had been exchanged for a smart, bespoke Burberry suit. Her Zara flats laid on the cab seat beside her, and on her feet were her four-inch Pradas. A quick retouch of her make-up and a thorough brush of her hair later, she was herself once again. The smiling bride-to-be to the Prince of England was closeted in the back of her mind, for now.

Anthea reopened the document on her phone and browsed through it for the third time.

She always said those MODs weren’t half as trustworthy as they bragged themselves to be, but even she hadn’t expected the Bond Air plan to blow up in their face quite so soon.

Thumbing at the keypad absent-mindedly, she turned to the clouds rolling in from the west, dark and rotten.

_Storms come and pass, but London still stands._

Those were his words from long ago, back when she was young and green and didn’t understand his world. Even then, he had planned for her to outlast him.

_And what if I want to stay with you? They all say you outlast storms, sir._

She’d been so naïve – not stupid, no, she’d always been smart – but naïve…yes, she was that once. He had scoffed, chuckled, and said:

_This is not a dictatorship. Politicians come and go. Only the crown stays._

And what little girl didn’t dream of being queen? She had thought so too, back when she’d been a kid and had known so little of herself, but it turned out she would really rather just be his Ann.

Anthea glanced down at her phone, counting the days. God, she hadn’t seen him in ages. Last she heard, he was pre-occupied with the Barnsley Central by-election that concluded a week ago, and now with the nuclear reactor meltdown situation after the tsunami in Japan, she imagined he was even busier. Herself as well… and of course there’s the matter of the wedding in a month’s time.

The ring felt heavy on her fingers. 

Now that she was no longer his employee, finding an excuse to visit his office became incredibly inconvenient, and it was only going to be worse in the future with the change in her public status. It would have to take a matter of national importance for them to meet face to face, and well… Anthea wasn’t so selfish as to purposely pray for trouble to befall England just so she could see him again.

They were acquaintances on a train, passengers sharing a cabin. They said their goodbyes when they must, and it ought not to be lengthy or more than a courteous smile and a polite ‘it’s nice meeting you’. After her, there would be other people in his cabin, and she'd be just one in a line of many. They’d part ways, as they all part ways.

Now, there was a new passenger sitting beside Mycroft Holmes, someone new, someone green.

Anthea turned her attention to the young man driving the car. “Mr. Reed.”

To his credit, Kaleb did not flinch hearing his true him spoken aloud and unexpectedly, but his knuckles did turn white against the steering wheel.

“Don’t be nervous,” said Anthea. “You were transferred to Mycroft’s office from MI5. I signed your release forms, of course I read your file.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Where’s Miss Dunmore? I’ve gotten used to seeing her.”

Noelle Dunmore was a pretty brunette with sea-foam-green eyes who Anthea recommended as her own replacement in The Holmes Office. She was trained in MI6, served briefly under Q-Branch and was excellent with a gun. Anthea trusted Noelle, and more importantly, she trusted Mycroft’s safety with Noelle.

“ _Beatrice,_ is with Mr. Holmes at Thames House,” replied Kaleb, emphasizing his partner’s alias. In his line of work, he’d gotten so used to not using his colleague’s real identity that it was startling to have these classified names be spoken as if it was common knowledge.

“Ah, so he hasn’t sacked her.”

“No, _no,_ Beatrice is a valued member of our team.”

“Then what exactly is your purpose, _Benjamin_?”

The corner of his lips twitched in offense, but he answered her question without a change in his tone, “I specialize in security. Beatrice handles administrative matters.”

“Beatrice scored a 9 on her last shooting evaluation.”

“I never said she wasn’t good, but I am better.”

Anthea cocked her head, “Huh. We’ll see.”

Separating security from administration? Anthea scoffed internally. Hadn’t she undertaken both of those responsibilities when she was assistant? Mycroft never had any qualms about overloading her with work before…he must be going soft in his middle age. She mused to herself. 

As they pulled into the underground parking at Thames House, Kaleb let out a breath, relieved that the paparazzi hadn’t caught on that the soon-to-be bride of their future king just drove into MI5’s headquarter.

“We’re here, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Mr. Reed.” With that, Anthea opened the door and got out, one slim shapely leg at a time, leaving behind her secular shell and returning once again to her natural milieu.

Kaleb sighed. He had some big shoes to fill.

Taking out his mobile, he typed.

_She’s here, sir. - B2._

_~_

 

The MOD man was named Joshua Bednarski, forty-years old, married, lived in Surrey with his wife, their daughter and a pet cat named Mickey (an unfortunate name for a cat, Anthea thought).

Three days ago, Bednarski attended a session with a woman named Irene Adler, alias The Woman, at her upscale flat in Belgravia. Her involvement with figures of prominent political influence had gained her much infamy in the past few months, and discussions in the entertainment media of her person and the services she provided only served to expand the breadth of her clientele. This snowball effect had recently placed her in the radar of those who watched over England. Naturally, being head of domestic security, Anthea reserved a special place in her mind and in her mobile device for this notorious dominatrix.

A smart, beautiful woman with ambition, they would be fools to underestimate her. After all, it takes one to know one.

Compared to Mycroft and herself, Bednarski was a smaller player in the Coventry team, but nevertheless, his clearance level allowed him access to important details of the Bond Air plan.  Judging from the document Lady Smallwood sent her, a small part of this plan – the seating arrangement of the Boeing 747 which was to be their decoy plane – may have fallen into Adler’s hands.

If indeed she had the email containing this information, worse yet, if she could  _decipher_ it, then this operation would be dead in the waters.

Anthea could imagine the numerous terrorist groups and parties on the black-market that would be more than happy to pay a hefty price for such an Intel.

The lift dinged and the door opened to reveal two familiar faces.

“Lady Smallwood, it is good to see you.”

“Likewise, A.” The older woman stepped up beside her and added, “I hope we didn’t interrupt your dress-fitting.”

If anyone else had delivered such a comment, A would’ve taken in as an insult, but she knew Eliza well enough to know that it was simply meant to be conversational.

“Not at all," replied Anthea airily, before turning to the third woman in the lift and offering a stiff, thin-lipped smile. "M."  

Olivia Mansfield sniffed. Why Eliza felt necessary to make small talk with Anthea, M would never understand, and her own curt greeting reflected her reluctance to socialize.

“A.” 

It was not a secret that MI5 and MI6 had a long standing rivalry, or that A and M had never seen eye to eye. There was no private vendetta between the heads of the two agencies, simply personality disagreements.  

As a leader, Anthea was every bit as savvy and firm as Olivia Mansfield, but while the older woman was short-tempered, A was sarcastic, and where the other was bold, she was justly prudent. The workers of Six may laugh and tease to their heart’s content, but the truth was, only within an agency whose own haughty self-confidence had bred a species of agents as volatile as the 00’s can anyone possibly think to accuse the operatives serving under Five to be incompetent.

Though she will deny it till her dying breath, M had voted in favour of A’s instatement. The young woman had a singularly brilliant mind, trained under Holmes, and was deserving of her promotion. Secretly, M rather appreciated A in a professional manner, even so much as to feel that she reminded her of her younger self.  However, there was one thing about this future Duchess that M could not overlook.

Olivia casted a side glance at Anthea as she worked her diamond ring off her finger, looped it through a platinum chain, and hid it under the collar of her shirt.

The elevator dinged again on the next level, opening to two more parties.

“Sir Eric, Mr. Holmes.”

Sometimes, M could almost convince herself that it was just her imagination, that there was nothing between Holmes and A. Except there was, and no one but herself seemed to notice it. She fixed her eyes on the number buttons in front of her, willing herself not to observe things that would weigh on her conscience if she were to keep it a secret.

_Three, Four, Five…._

Holmes and Anthea stood side by side for only a couple of seconds. The distances between them were but mere inches. As the lift arrived at their designation, M caught A leaning the back of her hand against his, for a beat or two, as if reveling the warmth of his skin.

 _See no evil, Olivia._ She scolded herself. 

The party of five proceeded into a small interrogation room, and at the threshold, M gave A a warning glare. Her suspicions were etched into the shards of blue that make her eyes appear as though they were cut from ice. A woman who had been playing the system for as long as M was a force to be reckoned with. You could not hide from those eyes, and so Anthea never tried.

M suspected, but she didn’t have any proof, so she posed (for now) no direct threat to either Mycroft or Anthea. And if one day she did step forward, which was highly unlikely, they would be prepared. One did not become The British Government or the head of British Security Service without at least some dirt on their own colleagues.

One after another, they took their seat along the table, with Sir Eric, the Minister of Defense and therefore the direct superior of the agent in question, in the center. To his left seated Mycroft and Lady Smallwood, while to his right was Anthea and M. After they’ve all settled, Joshua Bednarski was escorted into the room.

The man swallowed thickly at the sight of the people appraising him like a piece of meat on a slab. He could practically read the calculations across their faces, where the product of their equations was the remainder of his life.

 “Commander Joshua Bednarski, do you understand why you’ve been brought before the tribunal?” Anthea’s voice echoed across the vaulted ceiling.

Bednarski stared, eyes wide and jaw slacking. 

The identity of the Director General of MI5 was a matter of public records – it was listed right on the agency's official website.

_Andrea Paddington._

This was a lie. Obviously. 

Mrs Paddington, like all of her predecessor, was the _spokesperson_ of the Director General. Though an agent herself, she had never met nor will ever meet with the actual person whom she represented. It mirrored the system in place at MI6, where ‘C’ was the mask that ‘M’ wore in front of the media. Within the intelligence world, it was common knowledge that the identity of the current Director General of MI5 was classified in the extreme, even more so than it had been in the past. On the off chance that talk happened across agencies, any word coming out of Five was that next to nobody knew who A was. A’s secretary was perhaps the most tight-lipped individual in the entire rank, and nobody was actually stupid enough to ask outright. Within Five itself, there were seven people who had clearance: A’s secretary, the deputy director general, the two assistant director generals, the head of the legal advisory board, the head of JTAC, and the head of CPNI.

The Director General communicated via the internal messaging server or MI5 email. Whether or not she (or he or it, because as far as everyone was concerned their Director could just be a prototype government cyborg) was present in her office on any given day was anyone's guess. So it was natural that Bednarski, a middle-level official of another branch of the government, had the surprise of his life when he looked up at the source of the voice and saw a celebrity staring at him.

“But you are –” He started and was silenced by a glacial glare. Swallowing again, he continued, “Yes ma’am. I am here because of my affiliation with Irene Adler and the security consequences following our….interactions.”

“The council would like to hear a full recount of the situation, Commander,” Elizabeth Smallwood instructed. “Leave out nothing which you may deem essential to the success of the Bond Air operation.”

“Yes Lady Smallwood.” Bednarki cleared his throat and straightened himself up. Time to face the music: and if he was to go down, he was taking that manipulative Adler bitch with him. “Irene Adler has a camera phone…”

And so it began.

 

~

 

The session concluded two and half hours later. By the time Anthea emerged from Thames House, the sky was dark and foreboding with rain clouds. Behind her, M could be heard speaking in discrete tones with Sir Eric, but Anthea was too exhausted to bother picking up on their conversation. She had her responsibilities and she would see to them.  A MI-5 team had already been dispatched to Belgravia to monitor Adler’s movements. Courtsey of Mycroft, all CCTV footages from the area would be forwarded to her portable office (her laptop).  

Rubbing the back of her neck, Anthea unbuttoned her coat.  _God it_   _was too warm for March._ All she wanted to do now was go home to a relaxing bath, but her mind could not stop going over Bednarski’s retelling of events and what it implied.  

One: in a stupid attempt to show off, he had shown Adler the email containing communications between the CIA and the MOD. The email contained a series of numbers and letters designating the seating arrangement of the British Boeing 747 which was to be the intended aircraft.

Two: Bednarski swore to the gods in the sky and to his ancestors in the ground that he did not reveal the nature of the code, saying only that it would save the world. Neither did he mention anything relating to airplanes, air-lines or anti-terrorist initiatives to Irene Adler. Judging from this standpoint, it was highly likely that while Adler knew the importance of this email, she still did not know  _why._

Three: A photograph of this email was stored in a camera phone, a devise which according to Bednarski possibly hosted a plethora of additional information critical to national and international security. The purpose of this was obvious – blackmail. In the wake of the recent political scandal involving the MP of London, it wasn’t hard to believe that Bednarski was not the sole victim of Adler’s pernicious methods.

While not all the people Adler extorted were necessarily of great importance, Anthea was certain that there must be more intels on that phone which were similar to what Bednarski had leaked. That camera phone may prove to be invaluable to the agency but detrimental should it remain in Adler’s hands. Therefore, they must do everything in their power to remove it from her possession.  

But, several caveats:

One: Irene Adler, despite being a ‘sex worker’, ran a one hundred percent legitimate establishment. As she broke no law, conventional law enforcement did not have grounds to arrest her or confiscate any of her possessions.

Two: It’d been three days since Bednarski’s session with Adler. During this time, she had not attempted to contact him for extortion purposes or otherwise.  If it were up to the CIA, whose opinions were passed along through M, they’d send in agents tonight and have that woman in custody and her place searched. Except, Anthea doubted she’d keep something like that hidden under her mattress….extraction by duress may not be as simple as CIA would hope. Besides, this was clearly not the first time Irene Adler had done something like this; if it were so easy to force her into handing it over, those rich men and women she screwed over in the past must’ve done it already. The world had no shortage of hit-men for hire.

Besides, if they were to arrest her now, it was very unlikely their investigation would go very far. Adler had powerful people’s dirty secrets in her pocket; she would not be in want of people who’d vouch for her release. 

Three: At the moment, it would seem “The Woman” did not yet know the full value of her intels, or else she would surely be able to sell it to a willing buyer. MI-5 has been monitoring her financial movements and for now she had yet attempted to make any illegal contacts. This meant she could be sitting on it until she figured out what it was, that is, if she could ever figure it out. Anthea could think of no more than 2 other people in the country other than herself and those of the Coventry Team who could crack the code. If Adler could not identify the value of her intel, then that email would be worthless to buyers: her only means of monetary gain then was to blackmail Bednarski. But why hadn’t she?

 _What exactly is she waiting for?_ Anthea squeezed her eyes shut and pinched her nose bridge. Her head was pounding. 

A tall presence arrived between her and the nearest lamp post, his shadow casting onto her shorter stature.

“Mr. Holmes,” she greeted quietly, just as Mycroft’s black vehicle pulled up in front of them.

“A.” Mycroft’s hand flexed around his umbrella handle. It was clear he had more to say but couldn't.

Mycroft's assistant "Beatrice" opened the door of a black town car, waiting silently for her employer to get in, but the man remained motionless at his spot. Anthea could feel his gaze lingering on her, and a smile pulled on her lips despite her attempt to school it in. 

“Miss Dunmore, take the front seat,” said Anthea. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Noelle obeyed without question.   

 When they were left alone on the curb, Anthea turned to Mycroft and teased, “Is it really so difficult for you?”

He responded by lifting an inquisitive brow, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“A simple, polite inquiry of my health should not be so demanding on your pride, Mycroft. We are old friends, are we not? But since you didn't ask, I'm fine. It's just a headache.”

"Yes, but you've had it all afternoon." The man looked down abashedly at his shoes – abashedly only to her knowing eyes, to everyone else he might as well have been inspecting the non-existent scuff on the expensive Italian leather.

Anthea's eyes softened. She took a step closer (but not too close, because they were still in public). “Your worry is better spent on your little brother, but I would appreciate a ride back. I promised Pip we’d have a girl’s night at her place.”

Mycroft shot a cautious glance behind his shoulder. “Would that be wise?”

Behind them, M and Lady Smallwood were discussing a recent mission completed by 007. In Anthea’s good opinion, M might as well adopt Bond, because her preferential treatment of the man was bordering on unprofessional.

“Why ever not? You’re sending me to my sister’s house.”

Mycroft sighed, and she knew she’d won. “Very well then.”

Inside the car, Noelle was doing a fantastic job of ignoring Anthea's presence in the backseat, while Kaleb gave her a weak nod from the rear-view mirror. 

Mycroft settled his umbrella between the two of them as he arranged himself into the seat beside her. Before the door was shut, over his shoulder, Anthea caught M frowning at them.

_Oh well, you can’t please everybody._

As the car drove from Thames House, Anthea released a breathy sigh, leaned forward, and clicked the button to raise the soundproof partition. 

“What do you suppose Kaleb and Noelle would think if you took me back to yours tonight? They’re trained not to ask, but nobody can be trained not to judge and speculate.”

Mycroft felt his heart quicken at the suggestion, “Aren’t you going to your sister’s?”

‘Going to my sister’s.’ He knew very well what this euphemism meant, but since her official engagement, it was understood that the extent of their association would have to remain professional. It was a mutual agreement, and neither of them were the kind to go back on their words.

With the wedding just a month and a half away, Mycroft felt a twinge of apprehension at her suddenly revisiting a nulled idea. Still, he’d be lying if he said that he was not at all tempted by it.

He had missed her, so very  _terribly,_ a sentiment that he had hardly allowed himself to dwell on. It would be most ill-advised of him to do so, since it could not possibly produce any other effect than distraction, which would hinder him from his work. In the matters of the heart, Mycroft had much better control than his little brother.

_Come home with me. Come home with me…_

But he didn’t ask. He couldn’t.  

Anthea gave him a small, sad smile as if she’d known this would be his answer all along. Usually, she’d be more vocal about her displeasure, but it would seem she was too tired for that today. So when her head landed against his shoulder and she closed her eyes, Mycroft didn’t pull away. It was a small comfort, and he relished it. Reaching across the space between them, his hand found hers.

Her hand felt cold.

“Wake me when we arrive at Pip’s.”

“Of course.”

“I saw the dress. It’s a lovely Alexander McQueen,” Anthea murmured quietly, half gone already. “I hate it.”

The corner of his lips twitched at her sarcastic little quip. He pressed a kiss into the crown of her hair. “Sleep.”

Suddenly her phone peeped. 

_From: Will_

_Katie, have you ever heard of The Woman? A friend of mine suggested it. Idk, it seems like fun. Search her up and let me know? x._

“What is it?” He asked.

“It’s from him.”

“Is it urgent?” He didn’t really care. Texts from him were never urgent.

“No, but the timing couldn’t have been better. I’ll have to bring it up at the meeting tomorrow. I think there may be an opportunity coming our way.”

She pocketed her phone, fidgeting once or twice to get into a more comfortable possible, and fell asleep as they drove on in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am soooo sorry about the long delay in updates. My other fic The W Hypothesis ate up all my time, and school and work and gahhhh. Well. Here it is. I will warn y'all that updates for this fic will be slow, so thank you so much for those who are still willing to stick with me.


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